Fort Knox Has Nothing on Poughkeepsie
by windscryer
Summary: Every older brother knows that pillows are the very *best* defense against a pirate attack, no matter what the grown-ups say. Rated for language. Wee!chester. Gen.


For my Samsquatch. Don't let school get you down, honey. Like a kidney stone, this too, shall pass. :D

Flailed over by Lu.

The boys are not mine, or they'd build a lot more pillow forts. I don't care how old they are. You are NEVER too old for a pillow fort.

* * *

Dean hated the rain.

He wasn't like some people who didn't mind it when they were inside.

Or the emo kids and Seattlites who thrived on the sky peeing on them. Freaks.

No, Dean hated rain.

Mostly because he seemed to always have a damn good reason to be outside when it was falling—usually when he also had a damn good reason not to be under shelter.

Maybe everyone else had pleasant memories that facilitated this love of rain. Dean didn't know. But if that was the case, he did know that he had no such things. Rain brought pain and agony and death to his life.

Plus he fucking _hated_ the way it dripped past his collar and flattened his hair to his head.

And yet here he was, sitting in a graveyard in the middle of a fucking storm cell that would make Noah rethink the design of the ark to include a periscope, and hating rain.

That damn witch needed to show up soon so they could gank her and get back to the hotel room. He wanted a hot shower and three layers of sweats, a crappy movie on TV and a beer.

Oh hey, speaking of hot showers . . .

"Dibs on the first shower," he muttered, just loud enough for Sam to hear.

"What?" Sam's attention left the gate to the boneyard. "Dean! You can't call dibs now!"

"I'm oldest. I can call it whenever the hell I want."

"No, you can't. There are rules about when—"

Dean snorted and lowered his binoculars with which he had been scanning the road. "The only rule that counts is this: I'm the oldest, therefore, I can call dibs whenever the hell I want."

"Whatever," Sam grumbled and went back to watching the gate. "Here, gimme." He held his hand out and wiggled his fingers.

"Get your own," Dean said, refusing to give up his toy. Not that they were helping, but staring through binoculars was slightly more interesting than not staring through binoculars.

"Where?" Sam retorted, the bitchface he was making showing up clearly in his voice. "The Wal-Mart over there by that corn field?"

"Only if you can walk fast. You're not taking the car and I'm not doing this job by myself."

Sam sighed, eye roll heavily implied, and muttered, "Tell me again why we couldn't go after her during the day?"

"Because she's the cousin of the fucking sheriff and she lives in his basement. Didn't they teach you anything in your pre-law classes about how dumb criminals get caught? I'll give you a hint: Breaking into the sheriff's house to kill his cousin is one way."

"So killing her in the graveyard is better?" Sam asked. Not that he didn't know the answer, but sitting in the rain talking beat sitting in the rain _not_ talking.

"Lots. Body disposal is way easier, plus we're like five miles from town. Until someone dies again and needs to be buried, they probably won't even come here."

Sam turned to look at his brother. "Does it ever disturb you how easily you think of these little details?"

Dean's eyes remained on the road. "Nope."

Silence fell along with the rain for a few minutes.

Thunder cracked overhead and both brothers glanced up.

"Oh perfect. If we get hit by lightning, I am so coming back, ganking the bitch witch, and then haunting her cousin."

Sam just shook his head, his long hair splattering Dean with the movement.

"Watch it!" Dean snarled and punched his brother in the arm.

Sam frowned. "What is it with you and rain?" he asked.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Sam snorted. "Oh, I don't know," he drawled. "You practically turn into a cat when you get wet anywhere that's not a shower or a hot tub with a hot girl in it. You don't even like pools, Dean."

Dean finally turned away to look at his brother. "I'm not a fucking cat. And at least I'm not a big dumb puppy like you."

Sam's frown deepened, but he just he looked down and said. "You want some chocolate?"

"Hell yes! You have chocolate?"

"Yeah. Do you want some Midol too?"

Dean's expression had perked up at the mention of chocolate, but it quickly plummeted back into a scowl when he realized he was being teased.

"I fucking hate you."

He settled back into his crouch with his binoculars and ignored his brother.

Sam shook his head and sighed again.

"Seriously though, why do you hate the rain?"

Silence.

"Dean?"

An adjustment to the binoculars, but otherwise nothing.

"Deeeeean."

A sniff.

Sam's lips pursed. "Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. Dean. De—"

"ALL RIGHT! FUCK! Just stop with the Simba impersonation, okay?"

Sam's eyebrow arched. "Did you just make a Lion King reference?"

"Shut up."

"You did!"

"Shut _up_, Sam."

"When did you watch _The Lion King_?" Morbid curiosity had taken over and it would not stop until it was satisfied or until Sam was dead.

Dean really didn't want to have to do this job by himself. That was the only reason he chose to answer.

"There was this girl—"

"Bullshit."

Dean scowled. "You asked."

"Yeah, dude, but I didn't fall off the turnip truck yesterday. Not even you are ever so desperate for sex that you would watch _The Lion King_ to get it."

Dean sighed and rubbed a hand over his eyes. Now would be the PERFECT time for that friggin' witch to show up.

"It really was a girl. She was just . . ." He hopefully checked through the binoculars. Nothing.

Dammit.

"She was what, Dean?"

"She was eight, all right?"

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Dude, that's just wrong."

"Shut up, asshole. I was just babysitting her. Pervert."

Sam's eyes widened until Dean was afraid they'd pop out—okay, maybe more hoping than afraid—and his jaw flapped like it had come unhinged in a stiff breeze.

"You . . . She . . . _Someone trusted you with the life of their child?_"

Dean glared. "Fuck you. I am very trustworthy with kids. _I_ never tried to feed an infant hot dogs."

"I was _seven_, Dean. How the hell was I supposed to know what babies ate? And she was reaching for it like she wanted it!"

"She wasn't even six months old, Sam. She wasn't reaching for anything except her mom's tit!"

"Bite me."

"You're not my type, despite being a big freaking girl."

"Whatever. So why the hell were you babysitting?"

Dean sighed. He'd really hoped that part had gotten lost in the segues.

"Because Dad needed her mom's help to locate the body."

"Huh?" Sam said.

Dean waved it off. "Long story. Anyway, we weren't about to bring an eight year old to hang out at the morgue after hours, so I got stuck with babysitting duty while Dad and Maureen went through records. I suspect they also did things I would never consider doing in a morgue, but that's a story for another time."

"Like never," Sam agreed, face puckering in disgust. "Gross, dude."

Dean smiled slightly. It was the little pleasures in life that he loved most.

"Anyway, I stayed with Bethany and her mom said she could watch a movie and she picked _The Lion King_. Absolutely refused to watch _Die Hard_ instead."

Sam shook his head. "I can't imagine why," he said dryly.

"Dude, I offered her twenty bucks AND said I'd braid her hair."

Sam's face twisted. "You know how to do that?"

"Well, I know how to braid leather. Hair can't be that much harder, right?"

Sam shook his head. "I have no idea, Dean. I've never given it that much thought. And when did you learn to braid leather?"

"That's another long story for another time."

"Does it involve sex?"

Dean grinned. "Maybe."

"Translation: Yes. Lots of it. We'll mark that one down for right after the other one about dad having sex in a morgue."

Dean shrugged. "You'll never get to reap the benefits of my vast experience if you don't let me teach you what I've learned about girls."

"Somehow, I think I'll survive."

They were both distracted by headlights on the road, but they didn't even slow for the cemetery gates, so it obviously wasn't the witch.

"So, you watched _The Lion King_ and braided hair? Did you paint your fingernails too?"

"We didn't braid hair. I told her that was non-negotiable. Braiding hair came with _Die Hard_. She wanted singing lions more."

Sam waited a beat. "And the fingernails?"

Dean gave his brother a look. "You honestly have to ask that?"

Sam considered. "Yeah. The fact that you haven't just said 'no' already makes me think I do."

"Bitch."

"Jerk. What shade was it?"

"None."

"Uh huh."

"No, really. I managed to talk her out of that one by showing her how to build the coolest pillow fort ever."

Sam paused at that, the sudden memory of that same activity from his own childhood rearing up. He had to admit, his brother was very skilled in the art of furniture fort construction.

A smile curved Sam's lips as thunder boomed overhead again.

"Hey, do you remember how we'd always build pillow forts whenever it stormed and dad was gone?"

Dean grunted. "I remember you being a whiny brat. Oh, wait, that was _all_ the time."

Sam made a face, then bumped Dean's shoulder with his own. "I'm serious."

The movement sent water trickling down Dean's back and had him shoving back. "Me too. You think you were always sunshine and roses to be around? And I'm not talking after you started the teenage years. You were a damn annoying kid when you wanted something."

Sam snorted. "Because the fact that you were in charge made you _such_ a nice big brother. You were a little Napoleonic at times."

"Whatever," Dean said.

Sam let it sit for a moment, then said, "I remember the first time like it was yesterday."

Dean rolled his eyes. Oh hell. Bad enough he had to sit out here in the rain waiting for a damn witch, now he was gonna have to endure a stroll down Memory Lane with Sam? Shit.

Normally Dean would be all for encouraging Sam to remember the reasons their childhood didn't suck. Right now, however, he was cold and tired and really fucking pissed off because he was _wet_ and sitting in the fucking _rain_.

Well, there was one surefire way to detour this little promenade . . .

"First time what? That you had sex? Are you sure it _wasn't_ yesterday? Oh, no, wait. You shot that poor girl down without even blinking, you cold-hearted bastard."

Sam ignored him.

Fuck.

"We were in . . . Piscataway?"

"Poughkeepsie," Dean sighed. Might as well make sure it was told right if it had to happen.

Sam smiled. "Right. You said that was a really pansy name for a town and threatened to keep walking if there were frilly lace curtains on the room's window."

"Who the hell names a town 'Poughkeepsie' anyway?" Dean grumbled.

Sam laughed. "Dad was hunting a . . . black dog, right?"

"Werewolf," Dean said absently. "Dad was hunting a werewolf."

o.o

Dean watched his father pack up his weapons and bit his lip.

He wanted to go along.

Well, actually, he didn't. He'd seen enough in his short life to know that he really probably wanted to stay here in the hotel with his Dad and Sammy.

But Dad was determined to go and Dean hated that he went alone.

He really much preferred it when they met up with Bobby or Caleb or Josh and his dad had someone to watch his back.

Dean knew how important it was that his father do this, he agreed it had to be done, but that didn't mean he wanted to lose his father like he'd lost his mother.

If that happened then he would lose Sammy too and the very _last_ thing in this world that Dean wanted was to lose his whole family.

"Dad—" he said again, trying vainly one more time to change his father's mind.

Dad just put his hand on Dean's shoulder and squeezed, smiling crookedly down at him. "Dean, I need you to watch Sammy. I know you want to come with me, but I'll be okay. Sammy needs you more right now."

Dean sighed and nodded, looking down. He couldn't argue the logic that Sammy needed him, and he didn't want his dad to see the disappointment in his eyes.

Dad's hand moved to his head and ruffled his hair. "Good boy."

Dean followed his dad, stopping at the door to watch as Dad bent and kissed Sammy on the head, telling him to behave and go to bed on time and not make a fuss for Dean. Sammy pulled his attention away from the TV long enough to smile and nod and give his dad a quick hug and kiss.

Dean moved forward again as Dad headed for the door, taking the shotgun and nodding at Dad's last minute reminders and estimated time of return. Another pat on the head and Dad moved out, flipping his collar on his leather jacket up against the rain.

Dean watched him go until Dad was inside the car, then nodded at the look he was given and shut the door, locking it securely. A line of salt was quickly added, then Dean hurried to the window to watch the taillights of the Impala vanish down the street.

He sighed and said a quick—almost rote—prayer to Mom's angels to watch over Dad, then turned and headed for the kitchen to clean up the remains of dinner.

Sammy's movie ended abruptly when the power went out and Dean froze in the middle of rinsing the last plate.

A moment later a tentative, "Dean?" came from the general area of the chair in front of the TV.

Dean carefully dunked the dish fully, then set it aside on the drainer and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Hang on, Sammy, I'm coming. Just stay put."

He carefully navigated the darkened room, closing his eyes because they didn't help him anyway and focusing on his memory of the room using a trick his dad had showed him. He bumped into a chair at the table that he didn't remember sticking out, but otherwise made it to Sammy unscathed.

Reaching out he just about poked Sammy in the eye looking for his head.

"Dean?" came the terrified whisper of his brother.

"Yeah, Sammy, it's me."

Sammy's hands came up and grabbed Dean's shirt, yanking down so that Dean overbalanced and fell on top of him.

"Gah! Sammy!" Dean said, turning his face so he wasn't eating the armchair's old, smoky arm.

"Sorry!" Sammy squeaked, the hands releasing their tight grip, but not losing contact completely.

Dean sighed, but gave in and wiggled his way around until he was sitting on the seat next to Sammy.

"When are the lights gonna come back on?"

"Dunno. When they figure out what happened and fix it?"

There was silence for a whole five seconds before, "So . . . like five minutes?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but Sammy couldn't see that so he shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe. Maybe longer."

Sammy's hands tightened again and he hunched down and curled into Dean's side. "Like ten minutes?"

Dean's eyes closed. "I. Don't. Know. It'll come back on when it comes back on, Sammy."

"I hope it's not longer."

Dean's annoyance faded and he squeezed the lump at his side. "Me too."

Not that Dean was afraid of the dark.

The things _in_ the dark, maybe, but the room was warded and he had weapons he could use if he needed to.

Still, he'd feel better when the lights came on or Dad came home.

Or both. Both would be best.

Until then, Sammy would be a lot easier to deal with if he was distracted.

And it would be easier for Dean too, if he wasn't thinking about all the bad things that could happen tonight.

Thunder boomed and shook the room and Dean's lips curled slightly.

"Hey, Sammy, do you hear that?"

Sammy sniffed. "Hear what? The thunder?"

"Nah. It's not thunder. It's a cannon on a pirate ship."

Sammy's head came up and a flash of lightning just then illuminated his face, chubby cheeks emphasizing his pout as he stared at his brother. They were plunged back into darkness, but Dean could still see that image in his mind's eye as clear as day. He knew that look too well not to.

"Dean," he said very seriously. "That's thunder. It's made in the clouds when the air expands and contracts from heat of the lightning."

Dean scoffed. "Says who?"

"Mrs. Waterhouse."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, Mrs. Waterhouse ain't here and so what does she know? I'm your big brother, right? I think I know more than Mrs. Waterhouse when it comes to pirate ships and the sounds of cannonfire."

Sammy was silent and Dean could almost hear him thinking this logic over. Best to nip that in the bud before it got out of hand.

"Come on," Dean said, standing and taking Sammy's hand to pull him along.

He expected a protest, but apparently Sammy was as unhappy with sitting in the dark as Dean was, because he followed without a word.

For a few seconds anyway.

"Dean, what are we doing?"

"We have to fortify our castle against the pirates or they're gonna blow the walls up with their cannons and come and steal all our gold!"

Dean tugged the covers down, then handed the pillows to Sammy.

Tiny hands clutched at the burden bigger—if lighter—than the bearer thereof.

"Dean, I don't think that pillows make very good fortifications."

Dean rolled his eyes and gathered the blankets up into a ball.

"That's why I'm the one designing this fort and you're the one doing what I tell you to."

Sammy had no argument for that—or he was just too busy trying not to trip with an armful of pillows—because he was silent as he followed Dean back to the armchair.

"Set it down here," Dean said, tugging until Sammy let go.

They stripped the other bed and brought the materials to the pile, then Dean helped Sammy navigate to the table to fetch chairs for framing their fort.

This part took a little longer in the dark, but finally they had everything Dean thought they would need or could use for this project.

The four chairs were carefully arranged around the centerpiece of the armchair and then the blankets and sheets were wrestled into place on top, draped and layered to form a tent-like dwelling.

Meanwhile the storm continued on overhead and as Dean got into the fantasy, ducking and yelling insults at the supposed pirates daring to attack their stronghold, Sammy did too.

Before long there was giggling and laughing and then a pillow fight broke out when Sammy turned too fast and whapped Dean upside the head on accident.

When Dean had managed to steal the pillows one by one, Sammy resorted to just tackling his brother and trying to tickle him.

Of course, Dean was larger than him and much more experienced in being the tickler, so that didn't last very long.

Another boom, the loudest so far and accompanied by a flash of lightning so bright it left them seeing spots for a few moments, interrupted the ticklefest and reminded them of their battle with the pirates.

Finally they were all set up to Dean's satisfaction and he gave Sammy the flashlight—or, laser gun as he'd informed his trusty lieutenant—and said he was going for provisions.

Sammy frowned, but before he could ask what that meant, Dean was out the 'door' and headed for the kitchen.

He returned with crackers, animal cookies, and a canteen of water.

"Hard tack, wild boar, and rum," he said as he crawled back in and laid out the feast.

Sammy gave him another one of those looks. "Dean, pirates are the ones that ate hard tack and drank rum."

"Oh yeah?" Dean said, taking a swig of the 'libations' he'd scrounged. "Well that's why we have it."

Sammy frowned. "Huh?"

"See, last time they raided us, they lost." He shrugged. "We commandeered their supplies since they weren't going to use them. Spoils of war. That's how it works."

Sammy's lips formed a little 'o', then stretched into a grin. "Okay! Pass the rum!"

Dean grinned and handed over the canteen.

He then proceeded to tell the grand tale of how exactly they beat the pirates last time, Sammy listening with rapt attention and adding bits here and there.

Sammy clapped and cheered at the appropriate points, cussing out the 'scurvy pirate dogs' for daring to attack them.

When he was quietly—and messily—devouring the last of the roast zebra—"_Deeeean!_ They didn't _have_ zebras in the Caribbean!" "Prove it, squirt." "Mrs. Waterhouse says—" "Fine. They were imported from Africa. Happy?"—Dean thought about how they should probably clean up soon because if Dad came home and found the room in shambles like this, Dean's ass was grass.

Then Sammy yawned—displaying his half chewed cookies, ew—and Dean decided he'd just wait for Sammy to fall asleep and clean it up himself. As long as the chairs weren't out to trip anyone and Dad's bed was made enough to sleep on, it would be okay.

Except they needed to wash up and brush teeth and get into pajamas because right now there were crumbs everywhere and Dean was _not_ going to sleep with a crumby brother.

Bad enough he drooled, no reason to make it worse.

Sammy was pretty compliant at this point and obligingly did ad Dean directed him, all the way up until Dean tried to pull a blanket off to put him to bed with.

"Deaaaan!" Sammy whined, rubbing his eye with a fist. "I want to sleep in the fort!" He pouted. "You don't want the pirates to get me do you?"

Dean sighed and gave up on the blanket, lifting the flap instead.

Sammy smiled and crawled in, curling up on the floor.

Dean tugged pillows out of their bracing positions—as well as ducking back out long enough to get a blanket—and left Sammy to assemble a nest for them.

Once it was arranged to the youngest Winchester's satisfaction, he burrowed in, making sure to leave a spot for his big brother.

Dean would just have to move him after he fell asleep. Not that big a deal. Once Sammy passed out he was _gone_ until morning.

"Dean?" Sammy said a moment later, once he'd wiggled and kicked and wiggled some more into the perfect position, snuggled up to Dean's side.

"Yeah?" Dean said quietly.

"Thanks for building a fort with me. Can we do it again some time?"

Dean smiled. It had been more fun that he'd expected. "Yeah, Sammy. Sure. Next time those pirates attack, we'll rebuild and defeat them again."

Sammy sighed happily and promptly passed out.

Dean was comfortable and there was no way Dad was going to be home soon—he resolutely squashed the voice that said '_if_ he ever came home'—and so staying like this for a few more moments wouldn't hurt anything.

Dean let his eyes drift shut and just enjoyed the quiet safety here in their fort where nothing could get them, not pirates, or werewolves, or anything else that went bump in the night.

Here, they were safe.

o.o

Sam huffed a laugh.

"What?" Dean asked, lowering the binoculars momentarily.

"I just . . . never realized there was a higher purpose to building a pillow fort."

Dean arched an eyebrow and hesitated in looking through the glasses.

"'Higher purpose'? You make it sound like we were on a mission from God. I just didn't want you to whine at me all night."

"Well, no— I know that, Dean. But it wasn't that you were just playing with me to play with me." Sam frowned. "It's kind of a sad commentary on our lives."

Dean rolled his eyes. "No. It's not. Dude, I know you're a younger brother, so let me clue you in here: Pretty much _every_ game I played with you was to distract you so you wouldn't whine at me."

"Except for the ones you played with me to get me to do training like Dad wanted," Sam countered.

Dean shrugged. "Except those. But seriously. That's not part of hunting. That is a survival tactic of big brothers all over the damn world. It's the only way little brothers survive to adulthood."

There was a pause while he scanned the road. "Besides, it wasn't _always_ about distracting you—and me—from a hunt Dad was on. Remember the tree house at Pastor Jim's? We built forts in there all the time when it was middle of the day and Dad was down in the library doing research or in the forge smelting bullets."

Dean shrugged again. "Sometimes, it was just about kicking some pirate ass and drinking rum."

Sam laughed. "And eating imported zebra meat."

"Damn straight," Dean shot back. "Love me some zebra."

Sam was about to comment on that, but a slap to his arm drew his attention to the graveyard. A car pulled to a stop at the gates and parked.

"Showtime," Dean said and stashed the binoculars, freeing his shotgun from his pocket inside his jacket.

Sam followed suit and they left their hiding spot behind.

A few dozen squelchy footsteps later they snuck up on her. She tried to hex Sam, and Dean shot her ass full of blessed silver buckshot.

She burst into bright blue flames—which was pretty cool considering it was still pouring cats and dogs—and then she was gone.

"Well," Dean said as water dripped in his eyes. "That was unexpected."

"Yeah," Sam agreed. "What the hell kind of spell was she casting?"

Dean shrugged. "Don't know and don't care. She's not casting anything now."

Sam nodded and shrugged as well, and they left.

Dean followed in the Impala as Sam drove her car to the abandoned quarry they'd investigated earlier as the site of her spellcasting and they pushed it over the edge, listening to it bounce all the way down and then crunch satisfyingly at the bottom.

Dean had covered the seat in towels and they climbed in and started back to their current residence.

Sam, however, couldn't resist asking, "So, you really watched all of _The Lion King_?"

"Sam."

"What? I'm just curious."

Dean sighed. "Fine. Yes. I watched it all. I thought it was fucked the hell up, and it probably would have given me nightmares as a child, but I watched it through to the very last singing lion."

Sam smiled. "You liked it."

Dean glared. "No. I thought it was morbid! And disgusting. Dude, you know that Nala and Simba are probably half-siblings? That's wrong, man. That's just wrong. And when did they start killing people in Disney movies? I thought that was like a rule."

Sam snorted. "They've been killing people in Disney movies since the beginning, Dean. They're just usually more subtle. Also, no _people_ died in this one. Only lions." He smirked.

"Whatever. Fucked. _Up._ That's all I have to say."

Sam laughed.

"Hey, Dean?"

"Holy fucking— _What_, Sam? I am not watching it with you and, no, I don't remember any of the songs." He looked down at the pocket where Sam's iPod was kept. "And if you even think of playing any of that shit on my baby's stereo I will shove that iPod so far up your ass you're heart's gonna beat to a jazz tune."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Actually, I was going to say . . . Do you wanna build a fort when we get back to the room?"

Dean stared straight ahead for a long moment.

Thunder boomed overhead and Dean's lips curled upward. "Yeah, okay. Can't have those pansy pirates blowing us to kingdom come, now can we?"

Sam just grinned.

* * *

And now I go to hide in my own fort I built for, uh, research purposes.

Yeah, that's it . . . _research_ purposes.

Reviews should be delivered by catapult, arrow, or homing pigeon.

Or imported zebra. :D


End file.
